


Riding lessons

by Elesianne



Series: Fëanorian marriages [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Horses, Riding, Romance, Years of the Trees, some sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-19 09:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18134210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elesianne/pseuds/Elesianne
Summary: Curufin teaches his wife-to-be Netyarë to ride a horse so that she can share in an activity he loves. After their wedding, he takes her on a special riding excursion.This takes place in the same ‘universe’ as my other Fëanorian marriages fics but it should be understandable without reading those fics first.





	Riding lessons

**Author's Note:**

> The end of this is the smuttiest thing I've written, I think. Still far from explicit smut but enough to make me nervous about posting this.
> 
> Tolkien mentions Curufin being a great horseman, which was part of the inspiration for this fic.

Curufinwë tries not to laugh when she tells him but he doesn't manage it. Between chuckles he asks, 'You really cannot ride? Not at all?'

The way Netyarë's eyes shine when she looks at him in irritation should send out sparks, he thinks.

'I have been on a horse', she replies stiffly. 'As a child. I did not enjoy the experience and did not repeat it.'

'So you cannot ride.'

'As I told you, no.' She flicks a spot of ink from her quill at him. It lands on the parchment in front of him instead. They are drawing plans for the renovation of their future house together. That has gone smoother than this conversation.

'I didn't know there was anyone who couldn't ride', Curufinwë marvels.

'That shows the narrowness of your perspective, oh high and glorious royal prince of the Noldor that I have betrothed myself to. There are plenty of people in this city who don't know how to ride a horse, people like me who grew up in the city and continue live in the city without any reason to venture far outside the walls. People who aren't so rich that they can afford to own a horse just for riding from one end of the city to the other.'

Curufinwë mulls that over for a while but deems it best not to comment on it.

'I'll buy you a horse', he says instead.

'I did not say that I want a horse.' Netyarë tries to flick her quill at him again, but he catches her wrist in his hand and gently holds onto it. When she relaxes her arm, he slips his hand around hers and strokes his thumb across her palm.

'I know you didn't', he tells her. 'But this is one of those things, like the house that you think is too big for us, that comes along with marrying me. You need to know how to ride and you need to have your own horse.'

Netyarë looks down at their joined hands. 'I know', she says. 'I was being contrary but I do understand the need for this. I have not told you before because I was embarrassed. I knew you would find it incredulous that I didn't know how to ride.'

Curufinwë watches the flush on her cheeks in fascination.

'You will learn', he says. 'It is not that difficult. You are agile and strong and have good balance. That will help you, although practice is the best way of all to learn. And I will help you with that. Going riding together is after all one of the commonly accepted activities for courting and engaged couples, even long rides.'

'Oh, so this is all a ploy to get me alone far away from other people?' Netyarë's eyes are bright and teasing again, and Curufinwë is glad for it.

'Of course, dear heart. Think of all the things we can get up to half a day's ride from Tirion.' He raises his brows.

She raises hers too. 'I might be too sore after all that riding to do anything but lay down on some meadow or hill or wherever you'd have us ride, and let you feed me fruit.'

'I could give you a massage.'

'Indeed?'

'All over your body.'

The conversation falls apart in a rush of innuendo and laughter, and it takes a long time before they calm down enough to work on their plans.

 

*

When Curufinwë leads Milye out of his family's stables to waiting Netyarë, she flinches.

'It's so big', she says.

Curufinwë looks at the horse he'd bought, and the grey mare looks back at him, standing nicely and quietly, dark eyes calm. Her withers don't even come up to his shoulders.

'She's not big', he says. 'If anything, she's too small. But you are small too so I thought that a small horse would be easier to learn on.'

Netyarë keeps at an arm's length. Curufinwë doesn't understand why. He looks from her to the laughably placid mare that is behaving in a way that gives no reason for anyone to be nervous, and back at Netyarë. Her generous mouth is a thin line and her eyes dimmed by worry.

He should probably put it more diplomatically, but he cannot help but say – 'You didn't tell me you were _afraid_ of horses.'

At least he manages to not laugh this time.

'I –' Netyarë looks lost. 'I haven't been close to a horse for a long time. I didn't think it would be this bad.'

'This is a very nice, calm horse', Curufinwë promises, exasperated. 'Very good for a beginner, the seller told me, and Tyelko and I tried her out and found it to be true. There is no calmer horse in Tirion apart from the draught horses that bring food carts into the city.'

'That doesn't really help.' Netyarë puts her arms around herself, as if needing comfort. 'I have just discovered that I am afraid of all horses.'

There go the plans he'd made for the near future. 'What _happened_ to you that one time you rode as a child?' he asks.

'The horse bit me when I dismounted, and then when I pulled my arm back suddenly – because it was biting me! – the horse stamped on my foot.'

Curufinwë sighs. 'This horse is not going to bite you or stamp on you unless you jam your finger into its nostril or something like that.'

'Do you promise?'

'I promise.'

This time it is Netyarë who sighs, waveringly, and then takes a tiny, tiny step towards Curufinwë and the horse – her horse.

Curufinwë can see that she is gathering all of her considerable bravery, and he feels proud of her. Even if her fear is ridiculous in the first place.

'Come and pat her neck', he encourages. 'I'll hold on to the halter tightly so she can't turn her head and bite you even if she wanted. Which she doesn't want to do.'

This is very strange, he thinks as Netyarë takes another step and brings her hand, still hesitantly, to Milye's neck. He remembers when Ambarussar where given their first ponies. They were so excited and eager that they had to be physically held back from hugging the ponies with their whole little bodies.

Netyarë strokes Milye's neck first with two fingers, then with her whole palm. The horse stays still as stone, and that seems to calm Netyarë's fear a little. 'She's very warm and her coat is softer than I thought it would be', Netyarë says. 'What is her name?'

'Milye. For her gentle nature.'

Netyarë raises her eyes from the horse to Curufinwë. She gives him a tiny, wry smile. 'Thank you for doing your best to buy me a horse that would be easy for me. Even though you didn't even know how difficult it would be for me.' She takes deep breath. 'This is something I will have to do, isn't it? Riding. It is very important to you.'

'It is.' He dares to take one hand off Milye's halter and takes Netyarë's free hand instead. 'Beoynd riding being a part of the way of life for my family and other…'

'– highborn people', Netyarë completes.

'Yes. Beoynd that, riding is one of my favourite pastimes and I would like to share it with you.'

'Very well.' Netyarë squares her shoulders and stands a little taller. As always, it is amusing and endearing for Curufinwë to watch. She is so small and so determined.

'What is the first thing I should learn?'

'How to lead her by the halter, perhaps. Yes. We can do it together first. Put your hand here, opposite mine –'

'But it's so close to her mouth!'

Curufinwë rolls his eyes. 'Yes, but she can't bite you if you've got a tight hold on the halter. And for the third time, Milye has no interest in biting you.'

Netyarë puts her hand where Curufinwë indicated and holds tight, grimacing as she does so.

'Now, if it was a horse like Carnistir's Varnerocco – a beast from the Void if there ever was one; it was so funny when Tyelko bought her for him – you would actually need to watch your fingers…'

'Curufinwë!' Netyarë glares at him. 'Don't tell me horror stories about horses. It really won't help your mission to make a horsewoman out of me.'

'I'm just telling you so you know which horses to avoid', he says innocently. 'Varnë is the big bay mare with eyes that burn with rage…'

*

It is very slow going. It takes weeks before Netyarë is ready to get on Milye's back, and a few weeks more before she stops gripping either Milye's mane or the saddle with white knuckles.

Curufinwë tells her, again and again, that a better guarantee for staying in the saddle would be if she just sat like he taught her and kept her heels down and relaxed. He knows she can do it, knows that she has above-average control of her own body.

Netyarë doesn't appreciate that estimate for some reason and tells that to him in no uncertain terms, and doesn't relax. She does learn to sit right and keep her heels down, though, and Milye continues to be calm and obedient and frankly incredibly boring from Curufinwë's point of view.

Milye was a good purchase for Netyarë, though, and Netyarë even seems to be growing fond of the mare. She seems to like brushing Milye's dappled grey coat more than she likes riding.

'There is no danger of falling when I'm just tending to her', Netyarë explains one day while she cleans Milye's hooves.

(That is another new development; Netyarë had refused to do it at first, wary of close contact with the horse's hooves.)

Curufinwë leans against the wall of Milye's stall, enjoying the warmth of the stable on the cool autumn day and the sight of his betrothed finally comfortable with her horse.

'You never seem afraid of falling down when you're painting perched on a ladder near the ceiling', he points out.

Netyarë scrunches her nose. 'The ladders and scaffolding are inanimate, thus they cannot harbour ill feelings towards me. And before you remind me again, yes, I am aware now that Milye doesn't either. She's a good girl.' Netyarë pats Milye's neck and then pulls a carrot out of a pocket and feeds it to her.

Curufinwë rolls his eyes – Netyarë feeds so many treats to Milye that unless she also begins exercising her more soon, Milye will get fat – but he is secretly pleased that Netyarë likes the horse he gave her.

*

It takes almost the whole year of their engagement, but eventually – finally – Netyarë becomes a confident enough rider that they can ride out of the city and explore the little foothills of Taniquetil south of Tirion and the entrance to the pass of Calacirya to the west. Curufinwë wants to take her to the seashore, too, one day, though that might require spending the night somewhere along the way, or indeed at the seashore.

He doesn't get the chance to take her to the sea before their wedding, or much anywhere else. For it turns out that the last few weeks before their nuptials are busy for both of them, but especially so for Netyarë. Even though they had acknowledged and agreed that the renovation and redecoration of their house would not be ready in time for their marriage, Netyarë has thrown herself into covering the walls of the recently finished rooms with frescoes.

Some walls she paints almost like a painter who is not an artist would, only adding small or faint pictures  or variations in colours; others she covers with large, glorious landscapes or scenes from legends or depictions of the grace of the Ainur. She tackles both kinds of painting with equal passion, and as their wedding nears, it is all Curufinwë can do to make sure that she takes the time to go to the fittings for her wedding dress and meetings with Curufinwë and Fëanáro about the arrangements of the celebration. There are no riding excursions. Curufinwë has a groom take Milye out every day, and spends his persuasive powers on convincing Netyarë to take breaks from painting to kiss him in dark corners out of sight of the stonemasons and other tradesmen still working in the building.

Whisking Netyarë away from her work to kiss is much easier than convincing her to go riding. Curufinwë barely even minds the paint stains on his clothes (or, a few times, face, and one memorable time, the back of his trousers) that Netyarë leaves on him when they embrace.

*

Some time after they are married, there is at last time for longer riding excursions, and Netyarë finally seems be beginning to actually enjoy the activity. At times she still looks like she suspects that something might go horribly wrong at any second, but much of the time she is able to relax and look around and enjoy the scenery and the fine weather.

(Curufinwë never takes Netyarë riding in inclement weather. Giving her unpleasant experiences would hardly be conducive to getting her to do it again.)

It is on a particularly fine summer's day – clear, not too hot, with a pleasant cool breeze that teases tendrils of Netyarë's wavy brown hair out of its confines, to Curufinwë's delight – when he takes her to a place that he remembers from childhood. He remembers being impressed by its beauty even then and now, as a grown, married man, sees the pretty glade and its potential through a different lens.

Yes, he thinks that the waterfall glade will do nicely for his plans of trying something new with Netyarë.

Looking at her now in her knee-length riding coat that is laced tight around her curves and billows out at her hips to drape over Milye's back, and the breeches and tall riding boots that show her strong calves very prettily – Curufinwë cannot wait to get to the glade.

On the other hand, teaching her to ride has been worth the unexpected effort and delay just to see her in those breeches and boots. She never wears breeches otherwise, and though he has by now become familiar with her unclothed body too, he still finds himself appreciating her in well-fitting clothes more than ever.

The hours-long journey goes well, though it takes longer than it would were Curufinwë riding with…  anyone else, instead of his spouse. Yet she's the person he's the happiest to be with, and Netyarë seems to thinks the same.

'I am glad that you dragged me out today', she says as they turn away from the road from Tirion to Calacirya and towards the forested foothills of the Taniquetil instead. 'I can finish the fresco in the dining room on a less lovely day.'

Curufinwë's first instinct is to reply with some quip about how she should always trust his wisdom, but he decides that he is in too good a mood for that. 'I am glad that you are glad', he says instead. 'I'm hoping that we'll have a wonderful day together away from the bustle of Tirion.'

Netyarë laughs. 'We both love the bustle of Tirion, Curvo.'

'But we've come to appreciate privacy as well, wife dear.' Curufinwë flashes her a smile, a sharp and hungry one. 'Now let's let the horses canter for a bit. The ground is even here.'

'Alright.' Netyarë gathers the reins more securely in her grip. 'But no breakneck speed', she warns him.

He rolls his eyes. 'I won't go too fast.'

They canter to the edge of the forest, Curufinwë controlling Alacon's speed carefully to account for Milye's shorter stride.

When he slows down to a comfortable trot and she follows his example, he sees from her radiant grin that in spite of all her earlier protestations that she would never enjoy fast speeds on horse, she has found the pleasure in almost flying over a plain on the back of a beloved horse, the rush of the wind in one's ears.

'There's a bit of a climb here now', he tells her. 'We'll take it slowly but not too slowly, or it becomes more difficult.'

Soon she is grumbling at him that it is more than 'a bit of' a climb, but she does just fine. Milye is steady on her hooves.

When she is done grumbling Curufinwë asks what room she plans to paint next after the dining room, and that sets them both off on happily making plans for the rest of their house while their horses climb the hill.

'Are you going to paint the rooms we've planned for our children?' he asks as they are getting close to their destination.

'No', Netyarë says, and after a moment's pause, 'I am going to leave them blank canvases for now. When there is a child that is already growing within me, rather than just… a dream that you and I share, I will paint their room. With all the thoughts that come to my mind then.'

All that Curufinwë can say to that is, 'Good.'

There is a patch of denser forest after that. It makes Netyarë frown in concentration as she steers Milye around trees – as if the mare would walk into them but for her rider's guidance. Curufinwë manages not to tell Netyarë that. He suspects she wouldn't believe him anyway, and would be irritated at the advice besides. Curufinwë doesn't want her irritated, he wants her happy and relaxed and open to his suggestions.

Thus when they finally arrive at the glade before the small waterfall, he quickly hops off Alcon's back and throws his reins on the ground, signalling his horse to stay put.

He goes to help Netyarë dismount, not because she really needs it anymore but to take her in his arms and kiss her. Her lips are warm and the smooth suede of the back of her riding coat is soft and warm too, under his hands that hold her tight to him.

Netyarë is surprised by his kiss at first and her teeth clash into his, but soon they find their rhythm and she winds her arms around his neck, playing with the soft hair at his nape. They become lost in each other for a long time, until gentle Milye loses patience and nudges at Netyarë's shoulder.

Startled, Netyarë struggles out of Curufinwë's hold and takes hold of Milye's reins, patting her neck. Thank the Valar she no longer becomes spooked with the smallest unexpected action from her horse. 'What does she want?' Netyarë asks him.

Her wide mouth that he loves is kiss-red and there is a flush on her cheeks. Curufinwë tears his concentration away from her (it is not easy; it has not been easy since the moment he met her) and picks up his own horse's reins. 'We need to unsaddle them and let them graze', he tells Netyarë.

'Of course', Netyarë says, shaking her head as if to clear it. She looks around her. 'This is a beautiful place', she notes.

Curufinwë smirks. 'Noticed that just now, did you?'

She shoves at his elbow as they walk side by side to take the horses to a good grazing spot under the shadow of tall trees. 'You know well that it's your fault.'

'My pleasure, my lady', he smiles at him. As they take off their horses' saddles and bridles and lay them down against trees and Curufinwë strips off his too-warm riding coat as well, he tells her, 'I wouldn't have torn you away from your beloved paint and plaster for any less beauty than this.'

Netyarë grants him a quick peck for that. He grabs her in his arms again, this time lifting her off the ground and carrying her to the centre of the glade where they can hear both the rush of the waterfall and the birdsong from the trees surrounding them.

Neither of them has cloak, not on a summer's day like this, so he lays her gently down in the grass dotted with small white and pink flowers. He sits beside her and smiles down at her surprised expression.

Netyarë's brows draw to a frown. 'I have a feeling that you have a plan I don't know about.'

Curufinwë pretends innocence. 'I don't know what you could possibly mean.'

He gets a very wry smile in return. 'Well, at least you could do the decent thing and kiss me, since you've made me lay down in the ground.'

Curufinwë leans over her. 'The decent thing?' he whispers against her lips. 'There is nothing decent about what I want to do to you in that outfit.'

Netyarë nibbles at his lower lip, then kisses it. 'What are you waiting for?' she asks, running a hand down his side, sneaking under his linen shirt. It almost tickles but more than that, it stokes the fire growing inside him.

He doesn't want to wait. He puts one hand on her hair, holding himself above her with the other, and kisses him like he has wanted to all day. With abandon, with hunger but without haste. They have all day, finally, and he has no intention of stopping soon.

When Netyarë stops him to draw breath, she opens her eyes and mutters, dreamily, 'The treelight is so bright here. It makes your hair look like it has a reddish tint.'

'Hmm.' Curufinwë is not really interested in discussing his hair colour, but that is probably not what Netyarë truly meant, anyway. He tells her, 'Your eyes are bright in this light, and your lips…' he strokes along her generous upper lip. 'Pinker and prettier than ever.'

Netyarë flushes further. 'If you keep talking like that, Curvo, I'll…' She hesitates. She is sometimes still shy, more than he'd thought she'd be. She isn't shy about many things.

'What?' he asks.

'I'll just keep kissing you and touching you.'

'That sounds perfect.' He kisses the tip of her nose. 'I, myself, am feeling that this would be a perfect time for… a riding lesson of another kind, if you will.' He raises an eyebrow.

She raises one of hers. 'We have been married for weeks. I don't think I need lessons in that kind of riding anymore, I think I've mastered it by now, even better than the other kind.'

'Oh, you most definitely have.' He starts unravelling her braid, fanning her hair out around her in the grass. 'I have great admiration for your skill and talent in that activity. And that is why I want to further practice it with you.'

A half-reluctant smile twitches at the corners of Netyarë's mouth. 'Here? Outside, in a strange place?'

'In this beautiful, romantic place', Curufinwë corrects. 'It is a warm day, we shall not get cold, and there is no one here but the horses and as an expert on horses I can tell you –' he whispers in her ear, which makes her giggle '– they won't tell anyone what they see.'

Netyarë shoves at him. 'Even I know that! I just didn't think – it hasn't crossed my mind, being intimate outside…' Her eyes narrow. 'You planned this whole thing, didn't you? The warm day when we are both free to do as we please, taking me to this –' she infuses her words with a large helping of sarcasm '– _beautiful, romantic_ place, and kissing me as soon as we got here…'

'You didn't object to the kissing', he points out.

'I never object to kissing', she says, grumpily, and pulls him down to kiss him.

From that, Curufinwë assumes that that means she is willing to go along with his plan. He leans down to hold his body flush with hers, knowing that she enjoys having the weight of him on her as much as he enjoys feeling her small, strong, shapely body under him.

He breaks their kiss to trail kisses down her neck and now curses the tightly laced riding coat that keeps him from going lower. He settles for palming her breast through the coat and setting his lips on a sensitive point on her neck and sucking, gently at first and then harder, until she arches up under him…

And then she yelps loudly, and his ear is right by her mouth so the volume of the yelp _hurts_. It also sounded like she was in pain, so he rolls off her quickly and asks what is wrong.

Netyarë sits up, grimaces, and rubs at her back. 'This genius idea of yours might not be so genius after all. The ground is proving most uncomfortable.' She tosses a pinecone at him. 'This was under my back, and when you –'

'When I made you squirm in pleasure', he offers, grinning now that it is clear she is in no real distress.

She huffs, moves closer to him and sets her palms on his chest. She looks like she is contemplating something, and Curufinwë stays still and waits, thinking it the best strategy to get what he wants.

Sure enough, after a moment she pulls his shirt up and over his head. Then she pushes him and he falls back on to the grass, although the light pressure of her hands on his chest had not been nearly enough to fell him had he not wanted to go down.

She straddles his waist now, her hands still on his chest and edging closer to his nipples. 'If you want your devious plans to become reality, you will have to be the one to lay on the uncomfortable ground the whole time', she tells him.

Curufinwë wiggles a little to settle himself more comfortably on the scratchy grass. At least it feels like there are no pinecones under him.

'I will suffer for your sake, beloved wife', he says generously and starts unlacing her bodice. It is much easier from this position.

'My sweet, obedient husband', she teases him and throws back her head when he manages to undo the laces and draws away the sides of the garment and the linen shirt underneath it to touch her. 'Oh – _oh_ , how shall I reward you for sacrificing your comfort for mine? Or is this–', she gasps as his fingers knead her just as she likes, '–enough of a reward?' The last four words are breathy indeed.

'You know that nothing is ever enough for me', he says, and Netyarë shivers when she hears the words.

'Yes, I know', she breathes, and she puts her hands on his wrists and draws his hands away from her breasts, setting them on the ground beside him. 'But I enjoy trying to find enough anyway.'

She leans down to kiss him, and as they enjoy a long, sweet kiss that turns more fierce every second that passes, he lifts his hands to cup her behind, so wonderfully easy to touch thanks to the riding breeches. She breaks the kiss then and stares into his eyes. 'Are you or are you not being obedient today?' she asks with mock severity.

He returns his hands to his sides, and she kisses his mouth again.

'Good things will come to you if you are patient', she promises and now it is she who is trailing kisses on his jaw and neck. There is no shirt on the way, and she continues down his bare chest, stopping to nip and lick every now and then. Her mouth proceeds lower and lower, and eventually she moves to sit on his thighs.

He hardly notices the weight of her, because she is now licking his stomach, ever lower, and her fingers are at the laces of his breeches. He clenches his hands into fists to keep them at his sides, and lifts his hips to let her pull the breeches down…

Then she bends down, folding her body almost in half, and takes him in her mouth in one quick motion, and it is his turn to moan and arch his back. It would not matter if he were lying on a bed of nails because her mouth is hot and welcoming and her hands, her wonderful talented hands, are adding to the fire raging in him.

'By the name of Nessa, I love how flexible and dexterous you are', he groans and buries his fingers in her hair, and this time she does not tell him off for touching her. 'I _love_ it.'

'Mmh.' She pauses at her task just long enough to tell him, joy and self-satisfaction sparkling in her voice, 'It's thanks to all the painting I do in terrible positions. And, my dear', she gives a long lick for emphasis and makes him gasp, 'you should not blaspheme.'

 _I'd insult each and every one of the Valar by name, and the Maiar too, if it guaranteed you kept doing that_ , thinks Curufinwë. But turns out that further blasphemy is not needed; he gets everything, and more, that he dreamed of when he made his devious plans, for him and for her.

**Author's Note:**

> Curufin had wanted to have sex outside since they got married (and possibly in daydreams before that) but he's also a control freak who wants to be sure they won't be interrupted, so he wants a private place for it – which is the same glade where Carnistir took Tuilindien in _Your spirit calling out to mine_. Curufin also assumed he'd need to do a lot of convincing of Netyarë. But Netyarë is just as thirsty as he is.
> 
> Netyarë talks very profoundly about painting her future child(ren)'s room here but the joke's on her: when she's pregnant with Tyelperinquar, all she wants to paint is baby rabbits. (As mentioned in the second chapter of [Ponds, puppies and paternal worries](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10359705?view_full_work=true)).
> 
> Thanks for reading! I would love to hear what you thought of this :)


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